Control
by Jiia-chan
Summary: The act itself has no meaning. What matters is the control, the purpose, the plan. And when things go wrong, well... That's the real test. Gavincest, Bond, Bloodplay, Breathplay, dubcon. You have been warned.


Kristoph was working. He sat as his desk, typing away at his computer. He had court tomorrow, and he wanted to finish up his report before going to bed. It wasn't urgent, but… It made things more convenient.

He didn't hear a thing.

A chain wrapped around his throat, jerking him backwards against his chair. It dug into his neck, crushing his windpipe shut. He clawed against it, kicking at the desk and knocking his chair back into the man behind him. The man just pulled back, using the chain to pull him away from the desk and into the middle of the room, where he could do nothing but flail helplessly.

"Do as I say if you want to live." The man breathed into his ear, tightening the chain for emphasis.

He couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe, but he nodded, anything to relieve the pressure. The chain loosened, just enough to allow him to gasp desperately. The man shifted his grip on the chain to one hand, using the other to yank off the ribbon around his collar.

"Hands behind your back."

He obeyed, and his hands were pulled back and tied behind the back of the chair. The ribbon was just barely long enough, and it bit into his wrists rather painfully. If he struggled at all, it would only make it worse.

"Close your eyes. If you open your eyes, there will be consequences." The chain tightened again, as if he needed a reminder of what those consequences would be. He let his eyes slip shut, blocking out the blue glow of the computer screen and the steadily blinking light above it.

"Of course. Whatever you say." He didn't let fear or panic slip into his voice. That would be letting him win, and he would never make it that easy.

The man hit him upside the head, hard enough to rock the chair. Stars exploded behind his eyes, ears ringing.

"Do not speak again." No anger, just cold, emotionless command, endlessly patient and completely in control.

He wouldn't. His head was throbbing already, and if he could avoid another smack, he would.

The man spun the chair around, presumably to face him. The man remained totally silent. He would have expected the stereotypical heavy breathing, trembling hands, fear pouring off of him in buckets. It took a great deal of guts to remain so calm when all that stood between you and a stint in prison was a pair of closed eyes he had no real control over.

Kristoph was impressed.

He pulled Kristoph's shirt away from his chest, and after a couple quick snips, it fell open. He was glad he'd taken his jacket off before sitting down. New shirts he could get. New jackets were a little bit more inconvenient. The man cut open the seam along the top of his arm, careful not to cut him. He didn't touch him at all.

He heard the fwump of the shirt hitting the floor and shuddered. He hadn't even nicked him, not once, even on the tight cuffs.

He was good. Very good.

After a long moment of silence, the man slowly traced a line down his bare chest with the tip of the knife, not hard enough to cut. It almost tickled, stinging just a bit. The knife was sharp, very sharp. A razor, maybe. He pressed it in along the top of his collar bone, slicing deep into skin and thin muscle. It wasn't a particularly bad injury, but it hurt like a damn, and blood bubbled up and ran over his skin. His jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

A hot tongue scraped up his chest. He avoided the wound itself, letting the liquid drip down almost to his stomach before lapping it up in long, rough strokes. The razor continued flitting its way across his body, never cutting deep enough to spill more than a couple drops, usually licked up almost immediately by the man's darting tongue.

As the first cut clotted, he opened up a second cut right above his nipple, latching on and sucking hard. He nipped at the hardening flesh, flicking his tongue over it. A blush started to rise in his cheeks, pants tightening despite- or maybe because of- the pain.

The man laughed quietly, cutting a thin line across his face. _That_ was going to be difficult to explain.

"You really are enjoying this, aren't you?" He let the blood run, slowly running the stinging blade down his throat, over his shoulder, and down his ribs to the waistline of his pants. "You 're sick."

"Says the man who has to tie me up to get off." No bitterness there, not really. Just amusement, as always. Eternal amusement.

The razor dug hard into his hip, slicing through fabric and skin alike, deep enough to make him flinch away.

"What did I say about speaking?"

The blade ran all the way down his thigh, never letting up. He instinctively tried to pull away, yanking on the bonds around his wrists to no avail. His teeth ground together, clamping his jaw shut to avoid the urge to curse. Pinpricks of light danced behind his tightly closed eyes.

"You never take me seriously." He repeated the slash along Kristoph's other hip, yanking his bloody, ruined pants off violently, even as his voice remained dead calm. "Even now, you don't take me seriously. I could kill you, open up your pretty little throat, and you're still making cracks at me. What's it going to take to earn your respect?"

As if he would fall to such obvious bait. The blood trickled down his legs, soaking into the carpet. He thought about how hard that was going to be to clean, how he might have to replace the carpet, trying to explain the bloodstains to the police, anything to keep his mind off the pain throbbing away with every heartbeat, the growing heat of the chain still wrapped around his throat, the bite of his ribbon into his wrists. He would not give the man the pleasure of seeing him squirm, he _would not._

The man grabbed his ankles, forcing them up and out around the arms of the chair. Kristoph kicked at him, catching his shoulder with his heel. He was rewarded with a quick slice to his thigh, dangerously close to the blood vessel. His head fell back, slamming against the back of the chair as he struggled to suppress the groan clawing its way out of his throat. He heard fabric rip, and then his ankles were being tied, one to each arm, forcing his legs apart.

Fingers danced through the blood spilling from his legs, showing haste for the first time as he pressed them against his entrance, pushing into him and reaming him out far too quickly to be in any way comfortable. Now came the heavy breathing, the shaking hands, the clink of a chain belt falling to the floor. The chair creaked as it took the extra weight, and he was pushed back flush against the back. The other's cheek pressed against his, blood smearing between them. He didn't wear a mask, and Kristoph had to laugh. What was he thinking, coming in here, doing _this¸_ without at least some kind of protection? He really was naïve.

"Shut up." Finally, _finally_, his voice was broken, rough, growling in his ear as he positioned himself, moments away from penetrating him and completing the ritual. "Shut _up._ Don't you laugh at me. Don't you dare."

But the blood was sticky between their cheeks, between their chests, hot and liquid where it flowed from one set of legs to the other, Kristoph's aching cock pressed against his stomach, and if they were sitting the way he thought they were, then…

_Does he really have _no _idea?_

The man ground into him, hard and fast, and he did stop laughing, tilting his head back and letting out a groan, half pain and half sick, twisted pleasure. He didn't wait, pounding into him as hard as he pleases, keeping him breathless and off-balance.

"I hate you." He growled, and one of his hands found the chain again, pulling it tighter with every jerk of his hips until everything started to fuzz. "I hate you, you bastard."

Blood loss and asphyxiation and the rising wave of pleasure/pain made it almost impossible to hear, to understand, but he did, and he started to laugh again, more like a cough through the chain. He yanked it tighter, collapsing his trachea and quite effectively shutting him up, but it didn't matter.

The laughter was still there.

"I hate you… Brother…"

Speckles quickly began to fade to black, and just before everything disappeared, he came hard, seed and blood and sweat mixing together like glue, eyes obediently, mockingly shut.

---

When he came back to the world of the living, he'd been untied, his wounds dressed and his ruined clothing replaced with his favourite pyjamas. He'd even been moved to the floor, a pillow placed almost lovingly under his head and a blanket draped over his shoulders.

Klavier sat against the opposite wall, dishevelled and dark-eyed. A smear of blood still graced his cheek, although he'd cleaned most of the rest off. He stared at him, watching him slowly come awake, full of resentment and hate. He didn't have to see the bulge between his legs to know that his brother hadn't shared in his satisfaction.

"You know, Klavier, most rapists wouldn't let a little thing like their victim losing consciousness stop them." He stretched lazily, wincing as the movement pulled on the scabs on his collarbone, his legs.

"Fuck you." The younger man looked away, letting his head sink into his hands as if in shame.

"I believe you just did. Or tried, at least." He chuckled, sitting up and ignoring the stinging pain and the uncomfortable stretch of the wounds along his hips. "Now, I'm curious. Why did you stop? Did it lose its appeal, once I was no longer able to 'enjoy' it?"

He didn't respond. Kristoph grit his teeth, pulling himself to his feet. Walking was going to be painful for the next couple of days. He'd have to take it easy until he healed. Court was going to be uncomfortable.

"Even the most inept of assaulters usually at least finish the act. Although, with you, I really expected no less. How many times have you tried now? Seven? Eight?" Granted, he'd never gotten quite so far. Kristoph usually managed to turn the tables on him well before he actually began. He'd done well, very well.

"Go to Hell." His voice was rough, choked. He was actually crying.

"Don't be so melodramatic, little brother." He limped his way back towards the desk. His chair had actually been damaged, the back broken and hanging awkwardly from the mangled frame. "Look, you broke my chair. Shirt, pants, chair, carpet… Should I watch out for a broken window, as well?"

"You gave me keys." Klavier curled around himself, burying his head in his arms like a distraught child. "And the security codes."

"Why let that stop you?" He toed the broken chair out of the way, shuffling the mouse around to bring his computer back to life. "If you're going to resort to petty criminality, you might as well go all the way with it."

Klavier stayed silent. His work file was fine, although he seemed to have slapped the keyboard a little during the initial assault. He deleted the jumbled letters and saved, tabbing over to the other program. It was still running.

Perfect.

"Nothing's ever good enough, is it?" His brother sobbed, is if he were the one who had been assaulted, as if he were the one cut upon and bruised. "I can never do anything right."

Kristoph straightened, looking down at the man curled up on the floor.

"Klavier, you are an internationally renowned prosecutor. You are, quite literally, a rock star. You've done a great many things right."

Klavier looked up at him, eyes wide, tears glittering on his cheeks. He looked so hopeful, so shocked, as if he couldn't believe that Kristoph would say something genuinely _nice_ to him.

And, of course, he was right. Kristoph was impressed with his performance, yes, but that meant nothing. Even if Klavier had done it perfectly, even if he never again made a mistake his whole life, Kristoph would never admit it. That wasn't the point. Even a monkey could achieve success.

No, the key was achieving that success _on purpose_, planning out each and every aspect of that success ahead of time and executing that plan to perfection. That was the way Kristoph lived his life- each moment anticipated, every potential outcome foreseen and further action calculated appropriately. Klavier was the exact opposite, bouncing from one thing to another with no thought as to how it would work out in the end. Like this little encounter. When he came to Kristoph's home, he probably hadn't even planned to attack him. If he had, he would have hopefully worn a ski mask, brought his own restraints instead of depending on his ribbon and ripped-up clothing, used something _other_ than his stupid necklace to strangle him. It was as recklessly impulsive as always, and until Klavier understood that that was not the way, well…

"It's not what you do, Klavier." He bent down and ruffled Klavier's hair, like a loyal, if a little stupid, pet. "It's who you are."

He left him there, switching off the light as he waltzed out the door. He did have court tomorrow, after all. He needed some real sleep, especially with all those wounds. It was a good thing he was accustomed to wearing high collars- the chain marks around his throat would be quite difficult to explain. At least he could pass the cut on his cheek off to some sort of shaving accident.

He stood in front of his bathroom mirror for a moment, running his finger along the fresh scab. Klavier had done very well. He was getting more and more confident each and every day. Maybe next time he would come prepared, with the intent to cause his 'demonic' older brother some real misery. Maybe next time he wouldn't stop at a simple scratch. He wouldn't let him escape to unconsciousness.

His nail bit into the broken flesh, tearing the scab loose and sending blood dripping down his face, hot and red and beautiful.

He was looking forward to it.

In the meantime, he would keep pushing Klavier towards excellence, one step at a time. Klavier would eventually learn to control himself, his talents, and when he did, well… he would make the Gavin family name proud. Kristoph would do whatever it took to make sure he had everything he needed to reach his full potential, even if it meant sacrificing himself in the process.

After all, what were big brothers for?

And besides… it wasn't completely selfless. He had a feeling that he would be watching that webcam video quite a bit over the next couple of days. He really should remember to turn that thing off.


End file.
